


Blue

by Nemo_the_Everbeing



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Apocalypse, Dark, M/M, Sexual Content, Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-09
Updated: 2010-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-06 01:51:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemo_the_Everbeing/pseuds/Nemo_the_Everbeing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After everything they've ever known falls to pieces, McCoy and Spock attempt to find some meaning in what is left of their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Find My Way

**Author's Note:**

> This is a real left-turn from my normal style. It's told present-tense, which is something I usually avoid, but I felt fit this particular story. It's also completely lacking my normal humor. It's dark, dark, DARK with only a little bit of light in places. It's not an angst-fest, or anything so demonstrative, but this world is not a happy place, and these characters aren't happy people. Those who are willing are welcome to join me in this little journey into post-apocalyptic freakiness. Thanks to Janet for the Beta-ing.

He remembers blue, or at least he thinks he does.  His uniform used to be blue.  Not any more.  There’s been no time since the collapse to change clothing.  Most of the water is contaminated anyway, and what isn’t needs to be preserved for drinking. 

 

Even in all the browns and reds of his desolated world, he thinks that he remembers blue.  Some days, blue’s all that keeps him going.  Especially now that they’ve lost Jim.  They think he isn’t dead.  No, Jim Kirk wouldn’t just die.  The Pacifists got him, though, and Jim would probably be better off dead.  It’s terrible that he’s comforted by the thought that Jim might be alive, knowing what the Pacifists do to Uniforms, but he’s glad nonetheless.  This way, he can dream about rescuing Jim.  One clings to all the dreams one has in their world.

 

He remembers space, too, if he thinks about it hard enough.  He remembers the sharp, clean lines of beautiful silver birds swimming in infinite blackness.  He remembers laughing and joking with his friends when laughing and joking were more than fond memories, and he remembers blue.  It always comes back to blue. 

 

The whine overhead tells him that search-and-destroy is out in force tonight.  Orders to shoot a Uniform on sight.  Who would be more a Uniform than the legendary officers of Starfleet’s flagship?

 

The once-renowned Doctor Leonard H. McCoy tips his head up to see the curving wings of the tiny attack fliers bearing down on them.  A dozen, at least.  It isn’t necessary, but feels right to shout, “Spock, we’ve got incoming!”

 

Spock, whose expression has taken on a caged ferocity since the collapse and the closing of the Vulcan borders, cocks his phaser rifle, charging the cels.  Len reminds himself to pirate new cels off any fliers they down.

 

And then the tiny metal monsters are on them, and they’re both firing into the air.  Spock’s always been better at all-out warfare than he.  Natural predisposition.  Len is better at the covert ops.  He knows how to kill men in dozens of ways before they notice he’s even there.  Somehow, he remembers that should frighten him. 

 

Not that it does.

 

Not anymore.

 

He stopped reacting to things like that when the Pacifists killed Pavel and Scotty.

 

Molten bits of flier crash to earth even as the gun turrets on their wings unfold.  The two men scramble to grab as many twisted fliers and bits of metal from the ground as they can before taking off across the hard-packed earth.  The metal burns their hands but they don’t drop it.  They can’t afford the loss.

 

Phasers whine overhead and the plains become an eruption of dirt and rock.  The men must go underground if they want to survive to sell their treasures.  They must find the pits    No guerilla resistence worth anything lacks pits.  They’re especially useful when fighting the flying death.

 

The ground directly behind them erupts.  The two Uniforms barely find a pit in time.  Heedless of the dangers posed to his ankles (small considerations), Len dives straight into the hole and hears Spock follow. 

 

The pit is deep and dark, twisting so that fliers can’t navigate and follow.  The two men slip and slide, arms scraping on rock and root as they tumble.  Pain is a small price to pay for access to the pit.  The pit is their link to the underground maze.  If they’re lucky, they’ll find a good town where they can sell the metal and the flier parts.  They’re low on food and clean water.

 

They have to be careful where they go for their supplies.  Len’s heard rumors that some of the towns have completely shut themselves off, some have even gone cannibal.  It doesn’t surprise him.  The collapse makes everyone crazy in some way.  People with similar maladies probably draw together.

 

When he thinks like that, Len almost feels like a real doctor again, and not some of some glorified witch doctor.  He can’t believe the sort of medicine he’s stooped to practicing.  Last week a flier clipped Spock’s forehead and Len stitched him up with an actual needle and thread.  Not even an antiseptic or a pain killer for the procedure.  The area is still green with inflammation.  Len wonders if he has enough fliers to spring for an old dermal regenerator.  It’ll probably only be good for one or two uses, but the sight of those stitches makes his stomach clench.  This sort of thing can’t be medicine, but desperate times . . .

 

He’s jarred back to reality as the pit opens up into the maze, and he slams into the floor, the wing of a burned flier digging into his side.  Spock’s heavy form falls down on top of him.

 

For a long moment they lay there, too exhausted to move or think.  That’s what the surface does to a person, but how are they supposed to get anything accomplished underground?  How can they hope to overthrow the Pacifists when they’re no better than clever worms?

 

Spock agrees with him.  Len knows it even if he can’t hear it.

 

They don’t talk about the silent communication.  They don’t even know how it began.  They do know when.  Jim was captured, and Spock’s thoughts began to make an entrance in Len’s mind.  At first, Len thought he was crazy.  He’s still not positive he isn’t.  Both of them could well be crazy.  Entire damn world is probably crazy.  It has every right to be.

 

Len winces as he stands.  He notices that the flier’s wing has torn a new hole in his mud and blood-caked uniform.  He’s cut, too, but he doesn’t think he’s punctured anything.  Probably just scraped a rib.  No bones broken, nothing protruding.

 

Thank God.  They wouldn’t have the money to get _that_ fixed.

 

Spock touches the wound.  He looks at Len with a question. 

 

“It’s fine,” Len says.

 

Spock cocks his head.

 

“It’s fine,” Len repeats, not because he thinks Spock will be anymore convinced, but because it’s something to say.  It combats the silence.

 

For a long minute, Spock just stares at him.  Finally, he nods.

 

“Do you know where we are?” Len asks.

 

Spock considers, blinking slowly and looking around. 

 

Flash.  An image of a familiar face appears in Len’s mind.  He smiles.  It’s always good to see her, especially since she’s likely to give them a free meal.  She also has connections to other units, and might be able to pass along information.  Maybe even about Jim.  Either that or she’ll just send them on another damn-fool mission.

 

Len breathes out a noise that might have once been a laugh.  “You have the damndest sense of direction.”

 

Spock shrugs with his eyebrows before walking.  Len falls in behind him, marveling at the changes wrought in the Vulcan.  Before the collapse, McCoy would have bet that Spock didn’t even know the meaning of the word “trudge”.  Now Len watches him and Spock trudges.  His movements and gaze are listless.  Spock is not wholly Spock anymore.  He is suspended between the physical world they survive in and another altogether preferable world he can’t quite reach.

 

Spock, Len decides, needs a blue of some sort, if only to sustain him.  It’s probably selfish, but Len cannot survive the loss of his Vulcan.  He knows his limits, and that loss will be it.  If Spock leaves him, Len will volunteer for one of the Kamakazi missions.

 

Spock’s head turns fractionally.

 

“You heard me,” the doctor says.  He tries to give the sentence some fire, some anger, anything but dull monotony.  He thinks his pitch varied somewhat, but he can’t be sure.

 

The Vulcan stops and turns.

 

“Look,” Len says, pausing to bite his lower lip and cross his arms, “I know that there’s no reason to go on.  It hasn’t escaped my notice.”

 

Spock’s expression is unreadable. 

 

“That doesn’t mean you just up and die on me, though,” Len says.

 

Spock continues to watch him.

 

Flash.  Spock knows.  He understands.  Doesn’t want to, but understands.  It’s not about living, it’s about not dying.  Maybe it makes no sense, but it’s real and necessary and . . .

 

Len needs blue.  Needs it now and fast and he doesn’t care about the pain.  Spock knows.  He always knows.  He reaches out and presses his fingers into Len’s face, their only contact.  Len hates to be so exposed, but he needs this.  Spock needs it, too, and it’s been so long . . .

 

The mind meld no longer requires any words.  The tenuous thread that’s constantly connecting their minds simply draws taunt and crashes them together.  They don’t gel.  They annihilate.  They leave nothing but vast sweeping undertow.  Len feels the experience like a needle lancing his mind.

 

He feels the pain and horror first and foremost.  Hand in hand with these is the inability and unwillingness to express those emotions.  It chokes the Vulcan and presses hard at the backs of his eyes.  He’s filled to bursting with the pain, but will not, *cannot* let it go.  To let it go will be to lose Jim completely.  To let it go will be desolation. 

 

This meld, though, this is safe.  This is where Len can siphon off Spock’s misery, taking it into himself and processing it for the both of them.  They usually find a private place to do this.  They want to keep the extreme emotional experience only between the two of them, but privacy is getting scarce.  An abandoned tunnel must suffice. 

 

It’s been far too long since they last melded.  If they hold off for too many days, Spock will shut down.  If he shuts down, Len will have to go into the Vulcan’s mind and retrieve him.  The process is painful for both of them.  The misery Len will have to process will be horrific. 

 

They keep these cleansings regular and frequent.  It’s been five days since the last meld, and Spock’s pain slices through Len.  He feels the emotions and works through them.  He’s a master at dealing.  He’s been doing it for years.  Now it’s his job.  He deals for two.  The pain can’t really hurt him.  Can’t strike him as deeply as blue.

 

Through the pain, it wells, pushing through the gaps and forcing itself into his mind.  Vibrant.  Real.  It hurts his mind worse than Spock’s pain, but it’s worth it.  It’s blue.  It’s real blue captured in his mind in crystalline perfection.  It doesn’t matter that it will fade.  For the moment, he’s got it and it’s got him and that’s all that matters.  Blue crashes over Len, blowing his mind outward and inward all at once, filling his senses and leaving them empty. 

 

Both he and Spock know that a Vulcan should be doing the meld with Spock.  Len is a doctor of the body, not the mind and soul.  There are no Vulcans left on Earth, though, and Len must take the place of a Vulcan healer.  One makes due with what one has.  The human embraces the raging contradictions flowing through his brain, and is washed under, ripped apart by the pain, even as blue lifts him above it all.

 

The meld always ends right before Len passes out from the intensity.  Spock knows when to disengage.  Len opens his eyes to find that he’s leaning into Spock, pressing close and holding tight.  He’s sobbing, as he does every time.  His tears are soaking the Vulcan’s shoulder.  He can’t say whether the tears come from the pain or from the blinding vision of blue.  He can’t say if he cares one way or the other.

 

The sobs slow and then stop, but they stand for a moment more.  They can’t pinpoint what it is that lingers between them.  Maybe it’s just the basic need to touch and be touched.  The world has become devoid of contact since the collapse.  The longing after the bond doesn’t feel like the need for contact, though.  It’s much deeper and more complex than that.

 

For a second, Len gives himself over to whatever the emotion is between them.  To him, it really doesn’t matter because whatever the definition, it’s a feeling.  He never feels anymore.  He’s sacrificed emotion for survival and convinced himself that he’s doing what must be done.  He lifts his head and hesitates.  Then he presses his chapped lips to Spock’s cheek.  It’s lightly stubbled, and he can feel the scrape.  His chest hurts and he steps away.  Spock watches him without expression and then starts walking again.  Len follows.


	2. When the Floods Roll Back

Underground towns are giant caves.  The brown of the dirt invades the people who live in these towns until they, too, are as brown as the earth.  Being brown is a sure sign that you’re part of the rebellion.  They don’t call themselves the underground.  It’s too obvious a joke.

 

The houses underground are little more than scrap-metal shacks.  Since it never rains underground, the roofs are just tarps to keep any loose dirt from falling on people’s heads.  The streets are hard-packed earth and vendors line them in the little towns.  They know that people need food, and if they grow it or if they are willing to sneak up top and forage, they will be paid good money.

 

That’s one thing that the Pacifist revolution reintroduced: money.  And if not money, then barter.  Whichever it happens to be, a person always wants to be sure they have something on hand to trade.  It’s the smart thing to do.

 

The Vulcan and the human walk into town through one of three entrances.  People recognize them as Uniforms, and that earns them some instant respect.  Uniforms are getting scarce nowadays, and in the rebellion that’s considered something sad.  They’re the remnants of freedom to the people who refused to be taken over by the Pacifists. 

 

The people underground never say the word “Starfleet”.  It’s something sacred and not to be profaned.

 

Spock and Len’s first stop is the refinery.  They want to sell off the shells of the fliers they scooped up.  Len's already worked their nearly-full phaser cells free and slipped them into a pouch on his belt to be used later.  The inner workings will be sold off next.  The rest of a flier is almost pure aluminum, and the blacksmith is more than happy to melt government property.  A pleasure, he says as he pays them what Spock mentally tells Len is a good price. 

 

The next stop is the machinist.  The tiny woman in this stall is known throughout the rebellion for her skill at making new machines from old ones.  She makes home appliances, makeshift tricorders, but most especially weapons.  That’s what makes the big money underground.

 

She likes flier parts.  They’re easily reprogrammed and they’re top-of-the-line government-issue.  She also likes the Vulcan and human coming to her every few months.  She’s always talking to Spock as though he’ll talk back, and she never takes offense when he doesn’t.  She just keeps on talking as she buys the parts they’ve scavenged from the fliers.  She holds them under a homemade lamp and inspects them for the inevitable damage.  Damage will bring down the price, but there’s no way to get them without damaging them first.

 

She understands, and even comments that the harm isn’t nearly as bad as some she’s seen.  Altogether, she likes what they’ve brought.  More importantly, she likes them.  She not only pays Spock and Len a god sum for the parts, but she gives them advice about who has the freshest and cheapest goods.

 

As they walk away, she looks at Spock wistfully.  Women do that.  Len glances at Spock out of the corner of his eye and tries to see what they see.  Now that the two of them are in town, Spock stands straight.  He doesn’t trudge, but he still doesn’t glide as he used to.  He simply walks, like everyone else.  He could be mistaken for human if it wasn’t for the slanted eyebrows and the pointed ear he has.  The other pointed tip was cut off by a Pacifist early in the collapse.

 

Pacifists hate aliens.  They especially hate alien-human hybrids.  There are wanted posters for Spock up in every single store on the surface.  There are posters for Len, too, but not nearly as many and not nearly as prominent.

 

If he could, Len thinks, he would keep Spock underground all the time.  He always worries when Spock goes up top.

 

The Vulcan meets his gaze.

 

Len looks for the preserved vendor.

 

The preserved vendor is the most expensive vendor in town.  Getting non-perishables involves more risk than growing things.  Non-perishables have to be made with more sophistication and more means than they possess underground.  Non-perishables must be stolen from up top.  Len examines a tin of beans and wonders how many people died to get that tin to this vendor.  He puts the tin on the counter to buy.

 

He gets other tins: more beans, vegetables, fruits, everything they might need to stay healthy and stave off malnutrition.  They also get dried meats and vegetables for later rehydration.  They’ll get some fresh produce because Len believes it has more nutritional value than even the artificially enhanced preserved foods.  It’s natural and Len likes that.  Plus, fresh is cheaper.

 

They move to the clean water vendor.  He’s a Uniform.  His brother and sister-in-law were too, only they were killed in the initial purges.  He’s always given a discount to other Uniforms, in their honor.  It’s not much of a discount, but Len is grateful for anything the man is willing to give.  He shakes the vendor’s hand when he buys the water.  The vendor steps back, smiles in embarrassment, and then salutes them both.  For an instant, it feels like everything is right again.  Then the instant is over, and the vendor is just another man in a tattered uniform (red, Len thinks in disappointment.  Most of the blues were killed off first).  As he turns away from the vendor to move on, Len notices the man’s eyes go to Spock’s single pointed ear, and the man actually crosses himself.  Ever since the purge, people do that.  Aliens have become creatures of myth.  The few children left haven’t even seen one, and have only heard of them through vague and hushed description.  To have Spock walk through your town is to touch the stars.  Some regard it as a religious experience.  Spock never even seems to notice.

 

Unfortunately, not everyone went underground because they treasure the alien element.  “Look at the pointy-eared one,” Len hears someone say.  He stops, feeling a sudden tension in the air.  He hates fighting two fronts at once, but some who went underground fell back on their darkest roots.  They’re stupid and ignorant.  Before the collapse Doctor McCoy would have advocated education and patience.  Times are different now, and Len advocates action and violence.  He won’t let anyone hurt Spock.

 

Another voice says, “He’s a robot.  That’s what I heard.  Vulcan’s ain’t even real.  We made ‘em, and they’re robots.”

 

Spock’s eyebrow kicks up.  Len grimaces.  _Humans_ creating _Vulcans_?  That was a laugh.  People didn’t create machines better than they themselves were created.  They were too afraid to do that.  Too many consequences.  Too much risk.  Len knew what could happen.  He'd seen it in another life.

 

“Only one way to be sure,” the first voice says.  “If he bleeds, he’s a goddamn pointy-eared roach.  If he doesn’t, he’s a robot.”

 

The knife comes fast, and Len doesn’t have time to turn.  Spock does, and when he faces their attackers, he catches the knife-weilding arm by the wrist in a grip tight enough to break bone.  The man gasps and stares at Spock in horror. 

 

The Vulcan cocks his head and squeezes.  Len hears a series of crackles.  The man screams, twisting in Spock’s grip.  The knife glances across Spock’s arm before falling to the ground and blood begins to drip from the wound it inflicts.  Spock releases the man, who falls back and stares with wide eyes at the Vulcan’s bright green blood.  He’s got the look of a man who feels sick when he sees vomit on the ground.  To him, it probably isn’t even blood.  He thinks that Spock is some sort of demon.

 

His friend is larger than the man with the knife, and also stares at Spock.  Len knows this look.  It’s the loathing of a man who sees vermin.  Len’s seen it on the faces of a thousand bigots in his lifetime, and it gets him angry.  It’s hard enough for his Vulcan to live on this planet, the only one left of his kind, without supposed allies looking at him like that.  Len steps forward and gets in the man’s face.  The man shoves Len.  Len hauls off and belts the man in the mouth.  The man falls down, and glares up at Len from his sprawl.

 

“Next time, Son,” Len says, “you mind your manners.”

 

“Next time I’ll stab you before I say anything.”

 

“You try that, there’ll be consequences.  They’ll send you back to your daddy in a box.”

 

Len deliberately turns his back on the hoodlum.  Spock watches him.

 

They move on to more fresh vendors (there are always more fresh vendors than preserved).  There is an array of fruit and vegetables, with comparable prices.  The meat is much rarer, and inevitably more expensive, but they get as much as they can.  They hold just enough of their money back to cover an emergency.

 

Len finally hears the voice he’s been waiting for.  “Len?  Lenny, is that you?”

 

He turns, and Spock does too.  There she is, her once-carefully ironed hair long since gone kinky again.  The waves surround her tiny face in a dark halo.  It suits her, Len thinks.  She’s gained a sort of powerful beauty since the collapse.  The beauty was there before, but the power was always muted.  You can’t mute things like that anymore if you want to survive.

 

“How ya doing, Ny?” he asks as she slams into him, arms wrapping around his body tightly.  This close, he can smell the cinnamon and patchouli she wears to cover up odors.  Deodorant is just a fond memory, and he knows that he must stink to high heaven. 

 

“Surviving, Honey,” she says.  “You?”

 

“The same.”

 

“What about . . .” she looks at Spock.  “How are you, Sir?”

 

There is a flash in McCoy’s mind and he says, “He’s doing pretty well, all things considered.”

 

She nods and a bittersweet smile crosses her face.  “Just like the rest of us, then.”

 

“Pretty damn near.”

 

“Come on,” she says, motioning.  “I’ve got dinner.”

 

“Knew I could count on you.”

 

They walk through the town, and everyone nods in reverence to Nyota before eyeing Spock in either awe or veiled disgust.  Len is generally ignored, but that doesn’t bother him.  He’s used to it by now.  He’s just another dirty man amongst a hoard of dirty men.  The uniform is one of only two noticeable signs of interest, but half the people can’t even identify it as such, despite Len’s best attempts to at least keep the Starfleet insignia free of dirt.  The vast majority of people around here don’t even know what the insignia stands for.

 

The other sign of interest is the brown leather belt slung around his middle, bedecked with pouches.  It’s the belt of a doctor, and the pouches are full of herbs and rubbing alcohol.  Len hates it, but it’s the best a doctor can do underground.  Some towns understand that this sort of doctoring is outdated, that there used to be better treatments.  The sort of things they think of as magic and miracles now.  They don’t call Len a doctor in those towns, because no such creature exists.  They’re as much a myth as Vulcans and space-travel.

 

To them, the belt is the sign of a shaman.  Len thinks that they have it right, but there’s no changing it.  Better a shaman than nothing at all.

 

Nyota is in charge of this town, and her home is a larger shack than the others: it has two rooms.  Spock and Len walk into the main room identified by a fire pit and a sort of chimney designed to vent into the deep woods above them.  The trees will mask the output from aerial surveillance.

 

The surprise is the man sitting at the fire.  Hikaru looks up and smiles at them, raising his single arm in greeting.  The missing arm is something new since Len last saw him, but it doesn’t make much of an impact.  They’re all bound to lose something during this war.  An arm isn’t so terrible.  You can still run and shoot with only one arm.  “When did you lose that?” Len asks.

 

Hikaru’s smile fades.  “Two weeks ago.  It’s why I’m here and not at the front.”

 

“Have you had it looked at?”

 

“It’s fine, Doc.  No infection.”

 

Len doesn’t trust him and crouches down to make that call himself.  Spock moves off to help Nyota with dinner.  Hikaru’s arm seems to have been a decently clean amputation.  The bandages shape around the stump smoothly.  No jags.  “Who did this?” he asks.

 

“An exploding tanker.”

 

“Shrapnel?”

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

Len sighs.  If it wasn’t done by human hands, there could be consequences.  Where there's one piece of shrapnel, there are usually more.  “Can I unwrap it and take a look?”

 

Sulu grimaces.  Looks like he doesn’t like the idea of exposing the stump.  “It’s a bit of a mess still, Sir,” he says.

 

Len nods.  He’s guessed as much already.  When Sulu nods in acquiescence, Len strips away the protective layers of cloth until nothing covers the mangled remains of the arm.  The amputation is a single, clean slice, but the stump doesn't look as healthy as Len would like to see it.  Len probes the stump with his fingers, trying to see if any fragments of shrapnel are lodged under the skin.  He can’t find any, and he’s glad.  The last thing either of them need is something metal festering in the tissues.  He takes Hikaru's bandages, rummages in his pouches until he finds his rubbing alcohol, applies it to the cloth, and reties the bandages.  Hikaru winces, but Len's confident he has a good chance of avoiding infection during the healing process now.

 

Len meets Sulu’s eyes and conjures a smile.  “You’re fine.  You’ll be back at the front in no time.”

 

Sulu nods.  “I hate to think how my platoon is surviving without me.”

 

“Tears every night, I’m sure,” Len says.

 

It makes Sulu laugh, which is what Len was aiming for.  The old country doctor is more effective now than ever.  Remnants of happiness.  “I’ll ask them when I go back,” Hikaru says.

 

Nyota calls them for dinner.

 

The meal starts with alcohol, which is something Len can appreciate.  He doesn’t drink much anymore.  Liquor is too rare and too tempting when it is available.  He nearly drowned in it right after the collapse, before Spock found him. 

 

The Vulcan came, though, just as Len should have expected him to. The moment Spock walked into Len’s hiding place was the moment Len stopped losing his mind.  It was also the last night he went to sleep drunk.

 

Spock kept him away from alcohol for months after, telling him that he couldn’t survive if he wasn’t sober.  At first, Len had been convinced that he couldn’t survive if he *was* sober.  There was too much awfulness.  Too much death and loss for one ordinary man to take.

 

Spock had not accepted his belief.  Len began to think that Spock needed him as much as he needed Spock.  The Vulcan wouldn’t have nagged him nearly as much if he didn’t.  Len went dry, went through withdrawl, and came out the other side something less than the man he had been.

 

Len only drinks one glass of Nyota’s homebrew, and even this is under Spock’s very sharp eye.  When he finishes the drink (which whispers to him, urging him to consume just a little more, what will it hurt?) he switches to water and Spock relaxes fractionally.  For Spock, it’s as good as resting his feet on the table.  If there _were_ a table, which there isn’t.  Just a plank on the floor with a few rugs around it that function as chairs.

 

“You have a problem in my town, Len?” she asks.  There’s a knowing in her eyes.  Len doesn’t feel the need to lie.  It isn’t what she wants.

 

“You’re getting bigots in,” he says.

 

“They come through, but I don’t let them stay.  You know I screen my citizens.”

 

McCoy nods.  This town is Nyota’s pride and her accomplishment.  He mustn’t disparage something like that.

 

She says, “I’ll have my people keep an eye out.  There’ll be no more trouble from them.”

 

“Thanks, Ny.”

 

She shrugs.  “It’s what I do.  My own bubble of civilization in a world of chaos.”

 

Spock gives Len a flash, and he says, “Spock wants to know what’s bringing them in to begin with.  Bigots usually live further out in the frontier towns.”

 

Nyota frowns and Sulu closes his eyes.  “Pacifists got Prospect, Gold Earth, and Pangia, Len.  People are scared of the fringes.  They’re running deeper into the maze.  We’re worried about overcrowding and looking for some new direction to expand.”

 

Len nods.  The news is grim, but doesn’t surprise him.  “What about the maze?  Are we in danger of discovery?”

 

She shakes her head.  “When the towns were raided, we put contingencies in place.  They looked like isolated phenomena.”

 

Spock gives him another flash.  Mixed question and derision for their presumed safety.  Spock doesn’t underestimate the Pacifists.  Doesn’t think Nyota should, either.  Len doubts she’s as confident as she sounds.  Spock concedes the point. 

 

Len says, “Spock wants to know about the supply lines.  You still having trouble with them?”

 

That seems to cheer her up a little.  “Not nearly as much since the new tunnel was dug.”

 

“Good.  We were worried after the last bombing run.  Especially about the small towns.”

 

She sighs.  “I’ll admit, some of them were hit hard.  We had to convert one of them into a hospital.  It was a steady stream of people in for at least three days.”

 

“I should have been there,” Len says.

 

“You were busy on a mission, Len.  No one expects you to do everything at once.”  Even now, Nyota is nothing if not conscientious.  “You have your job.  You don’t need another.” 

 

She stands and walks over to the fire.  Spock rises and joins her.  Between the two of them, they bring over large pot of stir-fry.  It’s all fresh, except for the dried meat.  It’s the first decent meal Len can remember for just this side of forever.

 

He feels Nyota has something more to say.  The food is a cushion to a blow neither he nor Spock will appreciate.  Of course, it’s possible that Spock already knows what it is and feels the need to hold out on him.

 

Len dishes up a bowl of stir-fry and digs in while it’s hot.  Nyota eats with grace, but just as much hunger, a woman who would like to deny her poverty but can’t afford to.  Hikaru manages his utensils with deft strokes, like a shovel: scoop, insert food, chew, swallow, repeat without pause.

 

Spock eats the food, meat and all.  He stopped being a vegetarian when Len gave up drinking.  Their silent pact of survival.  If Nyota and Hikaru notice, they don’t say anything.

 

For long mintues, they sit and eat.  It’s something you learned after the collapse: when anything edible was put in front of you, you kept you eyes on it and you ate it as fast as you could.  There was a good chance you would lose it if you didn’t obey those rules.  Even in this setting, where there’s enough stir-fry for them all, and they are no longer just huddled masses in the early refugee camps, they retain the habit.  Food is not a luxury they can afford to savor.

 

Spock hands Len another glass of water without being asked, and their hands brush.  Len sends his thanks over the tenuous thread, and he is given a flash of dismissal.  Spock never likes gratitude.

 

“So, what’s the job, Ny?” he asks when the tension gets too high and he can’t enjoy his stir-fry without a straight answer.

 

To her credit, Nyota doesn’t even act surprised that he asked.  “Simple forage job,” she says.

 

“You’re sending us back to the surface so soon?” Len asks in dull anger.  The rebellion is important, but this is a waste.  He has his own life to worry about.  He has Spock.  They need to be fresh for forage jobs.  They need time to regroup.

 

“Everyone with the training is already sent or dead,” she says.  “Desperate times, Len.”

 

He gets a flash and turns to Spock.  “No,” he said, “I *don’t* think it’s a good idea.  I think we need a few days.”  Flash.  “I know, but we aren’t—” he turns to Nyota.  “We aren’t needed immediately, are we?  Can we have a few days to recuperate before going back out?”

 

She nods.  “I have a shack set aside for you on the edge of town.  Rest up while I get your equipment in.”

 

Flash.  “Equipment?” he asks for Spock.  “What sort of mission is this?”

 

“Weapons,” she says, her voice hard.  “We’re going to steal their weapons, and we’re going to blow the armory on our way out.  We’re giving you demolitions, disguises, and fresh phaser-rifles.”

 

“How many in our team?” he asks.

 

She doesn’t answer.

 

“Me and Spock?”

 

“Resources are stretched very thin, Len.  I’m sorry.”

 

He looks over at the Vulcan and says, “Yeah.  So am I.”

 

Spock gives him a flash, and it’s all the out he needs.  He rises, and everyone else does the same.  “I’m sorry to be abrupt,” it’s a lie, but who cares, “but Spock’s tired.  So’m I.  If you’ll point us in the direction of this hut, we’ll get some sleep.”

 

Nyota watches him.  Len knows he’s a lair, and he knows that she knows too.  She won’t talk about it.  She knows her orders aren’t fair.  She knows it’s a suicide mission, and she knows they’ll do it.  Duty before life always.  When the future of the human race is at stake, you follow orders even unto death.

 

It doesn’t mean you enjoy it or want to die.  And it doesn’t stop the feeling of being used which accompanies the order.  It doesn’t mean you don’t wonder why you were picked and someone else was spared.

 

 

They get directions to their shack and leave.  Len really does want sleep, especially in their own private shack.  It’s a luxury for the walking dead.  An appeasement, an apology of sorts.

 

The shack is tiny, only one room, but it has rugs to sleep and sit on, and they’re clean.  The true marvel is the tub of cold water for bathing and rags for scrubbing.  Nyota’s practicality.  Pacifists aren’t dirty.  If they’re infiltrating, they have to be clean.  They have to be presentable, or at least an approximation.

 

Len strips, dipping a rag into the water and washing himself off.  The years have disposed of almost all their modesty, and Spock stands next to him as they wash.  Once they’re done, they take turns scrubbing each other’s backs. 

 

Len counts each of Spock’s green scars as he ghosts the rag over them.  They look a little better without the grime, and they aren’t infected.  Still, he hates seeing Spock scarred like that.  He can look at the man’s ear and not flinch, but the little scars get to him.  They’re signs of a sadism that even the ear can’t touch.

 

Spock is thorough when he scrubs Len's back, and the human closes his eyes.  Tactile pleasures are so very rare that they have to be savored.  Gratification is fleeting and over too soon.

 

When Spock is finished, Len doesn’t give a sign that he’s disappointed.  He just picks up his shirt, pants and underwear, and uses the rest of the water to rinse out his clothes. Spock does the same.  The rags are used to wipe down their boots, and then everything is spread out on rugs next to the fire pit to dry.

 

They build a fire, spread the rugs and stretch out, falling asleep as they dry.


	3. Trying to Weather the Fall

The nights get cool underground and Len wakes up shivering.  The fire has gone out.  He crawls to his knees and tries to remake it.  It’s been a long time since he’s fumbled over this procedure, but the night has stolen all the heat in his body, since he went to sleep wet and without the stiff layer of grimy clothes which retained heat so well.  Dirt is an excellent insulator. 

 

His fingers are icy, barely obeying even the simplest commands.  They fumble with the steel knife and flint.  The spark doesn’t come and he frowns, attempting to strike the flint harder.  Nothing happens.  He continues to work, the strikes ringing with hollow insistence in the darkness. 

 

A hand covers his and Len looks up at Spock.  The Vulcan meets his eyes and one of his brows kicks up.  Then, he takes the flint and strikes it.  Even Spock gets no results.  Len watches the Vulcan narrow his focus until his gaze alone can light the fire.  Of course, it doesn’t.  Pleasant little myths and colloquialisms are nothing more than wastes of breath underground.  Only Spock can coax them out of Len.

 

Len remembers a time when Spock hated his strange turns of phrase.  But when Len stopped talking like that, Spock started insisting on it.  Spock’s very focused on the sorts of little things that keep Len human.  Keep him a facsimile of the man he used to be.  Len supposes he should be grateful.  After all, without Spock, he’d be a body in some ditch.  He’d have died drunk, mourning the loss of a life he hadn’t even really known that he loved.  There would be no more earth, no more future for Leonard McCoy.  He would just be a body in a mass grave, and that would be the end of it.  Nothing more.

 

There are times when Len hates Spock for keeping him alive and capable of feeling.

 

They sit and watch Spock work.  Len rubs his fingers and flexes them, encouraging the blood flow.  Finally, Len takes the flint from the Vulcan.  Spock looks up at him and comes close to frowning.  He hates it when he’s unable to do something properly.  Len strikes the flint and, after a minute, finally gets results.  The fire restarts and they feed it.  The shack warms. 

 

They lay back down, but don’t sleep.  Len says, “Guess we knew the day would come, didn’t we?”

 

Spock stares at the ceiling.

 

“I almost had myself believing that if you knew someone ranked, someone like Ny, you wouldn’t get the Kamikaze jobs unless you volunteered.”

 

Spock stares at the ceiling.

 

“I know that the resistance is important.  Hell, it’s more important than anything.  If we want a future for this galaxy, if we want to see the stars and other races again, we have to overthrow the Pacifists.”  Len closes his eyes and then opens them again, realizing that the shuttering effect doesn’t close out anything.  He watches the shadows writhe and dance on the tarp above their heads.  “It’s different when it’s your life on the line, though.”

 

Spock shifts, and for a moment it seems he’ll look at Len.  He doesn’t.  He stares at the ceiling.

 

“I don’t want to die,” Len says, pondering the words and the effort it takes to say them.  He feels like a coward, but he needs to tell someone.  Spock won’t tell his secret, not even if he could talk.  “I don’t want you to die.”  That’s harder to say, because it comes close to other admissions.  They’re things Len can’t even put into words.  Doesn’t think that words like that have been invented.  All he knows is that something squeezes at his chest when Spock looks at him a certain way, and it feels like his intestines are going to fall out when the Vulcan gets close enough. 

 

And he has never felt more at home than when he sees blue in Spock’s mind.  It’s a pain-filled, horrific home, but there’s a sense of peace there.  After all, once the misery has been dealt with, there’s nothing but Spock and blue.  He’d kill for both, he’d die for either.

 

Dying for the rebellion, though, is a harder thing.  It’s much more abstracted and he can’t really wrap his mind around the obligation.  The quest for freedom catches him up sometimes, and he really understands all the necessity which drives his leaders, but other times, when they’re on the surface and they’re running low on food, and all he really wants is some clean water, well, then it’s harder to devote himself to an ideal.  He wants something concrete.

 

Flash.  Len closes his eyes, knowing that Spock heard his train of thought.  The Vulcan doesn’t intrude often, only when he feels it's necessary.  Spock thinks that what he’s got to say is important.  Len listens. 

 

Spock tells him to personalize the fight, to think of the rebellion not as something so vague that it’s impossible to identify, but to give it traits, give it meaning.  He wouldn’t be fighting and dying for freedom or liberation, but for Vulcan, for Earth, or, if he wanted to contract the focus even further, for blue.  Len could die for blue.

 

Letting the thought fade and cool in both their minds, Len lets his gaze run over Spock.  The new injuries should be treated, he thinks.  Spock’s gone too long without a quick inspection and patch-job.  He never has time for these once-overs up top.  Even if they did, the camouflaging grime they’re both usually caked in covers a multitude of gashes and gouges.  It’s a wonder they aren’t infected more than a few times a week.  Spock usually attributes it to Vulcan healing.  Len attributes it to a near-constant consumption of antibiotics. 

 

He restocked those last month.  They were low-grade, but he should have enough to make due for at least another four weeks if they monitor how many they take.  With the new mission, they'll probably die before the stock runs out.

 

Len decides it’s time to check Spock over for anything needing immediate attention, particularly the cut he picked up from the bigots in the street.  It had been at least enough to make him bleed.  It should be bandaged.  He wonders if Spock will argue or resist.  After all, why should he be treated when death seems so imminent?

 

He should because Len can’t stand seeing him in pain.  Len reaches out and runs a hand against Spock’s newly damaged flesh.  The Vulcan watches, but doesn’t attempt to stop the perusal.  Apparently, he got the message.

 

Without dirt, Spock’s skin can no longer hide the small burns and lacerations which trace his skin in emerald lace-work, overlaying older wounds and scars.  One is never fully healed in the rebellion. 

 

Len gets up, goes to his clothes, and rummages through the leather pouches hanging from his belt.  He’s careful not to disturb or bruise the supply of herbs as he looks.  They’re too expensive and too hard to find for rough treatment. 

 

At last, he pulls out his dwindling stock of rubbing alcohol.  He rummages a bit more, and then produces a thin length of undyed cotton cloth, kept as clean as anything can be.  This, too, is dwindling.  Everything seems to be running short.

 

He brings both the alcohol and the cloth back to Spock and uses the knife to cut off a bit of the cloth, wetting it with alcohol and dabbing at the cuts.  Spock gives no sign of reaction, and Len continues his work.

 

Most of the grazes have scabbed over, and he doesn’t bother much with them.  He focuses on the major injuries, the ones that could go gangrenous if not treated.  He turns the forearm over in his hands to get a better look, brushing at it with the disinfecting alcohol.  The blade went deep.  It even split some muscle in places.  It needs stitches. 

 

He tells Spock as much and the Vulcan nods.  They both attempt calm and both fail in one way or another.  Len’s voice shakes with sympathy, while Spock’s eyes grow hunted.

 

There’s no other way to heal the wound, so it’s back to the pouches to get the needle, thread, and the roll of leather.  When Len comes back, he puts the needle in the fire until it’s red-hot and sterilized.  He then sets it aside on a rock to cool.

 

He hates this.  He hates having to work under these conditions, with no anesthesia.  He hands Spock the leather roll without a word and the Vulcan makes no sign of protest.  He’s been through this before.  He knows what’s involved.  He puts the leather roll between his jaws and bites down lightly to secure a good grip.  The roll already has his teeth imprinted upon it and he fits to it as naturally as if it were made for him.  For all effects and purposes, it has been.

 

Watching Spock’s face, Len rubs the area down with his cloth again, sterilizing with greater care and pressure.  He wants to be sure that the stitching isn’t going to close in some sort of infection which might crawl up Spock’s arm.  Len can’t even picture the bone-saw in his hand if the body on the table were Spock’s. 

 

Thinking of Hikaru, he sterilizes the wound with a great deal of attention and effort.  Spock doesn’t complain, though his skin flinches.  When things are clean, Len threads the needle, and Spock watches it with eyes that waver between fear and determination.  Not even a Vulcan can repress all reaction to a procedure of such a visceral nature.

 

The first stitch is always the worst for both of them.  Spock’s eyes close, and his body tenses against the pain of a blunt piece of metal being forced through layers of tissue.  Len hates it, too.  He hates the resistance of the flesh and the way Spock bites down hard on the leather.  He’s a doctor and hates causing pain, especially in Spock, who suffers enough as is.

 

The rest of the stitches are easier because they both know what to expect.  The shock of newness wears off a bit more with each progressive stab.  When he ties off the last stitch, Len starts breathing again and Spock removes the leather roll from his mouth, teeth marks dug even deeper than before.

 

After wrapping a layer of cloth around the stitching as a feeble guard against airborne bacteria, Len wipes the cloth over Spock’s stitches on his forehead.  Not much help there.  The cut’s probably infected.

 

Len gathers his supplies and puts them away in the correct pouches.  Then he comes back and sits.  Spock is cradling his arm in his lap, trying not to look vulnerable.  He almost succeeds.

 

Len reaches out and touches the arm.  Not the wound, but the arm.  It’s an apology, as much of one as he can give and as much of one as Spock can accept.  Then, going one further, Len touches Spock’s shoulder with his other hand.  Spock’s uninjured hand raises, hesitates in the air, and then comes in for a soft landing on the side of Len’s neck, fingers curling around the back to brush the hairs at his nape.  The sensation is a shock after so much pain.  Len shivers.

 

They sit like this, neither saying a thing.  It’s an occurrence outside their routine, and there are no words for it yet.  Not that Spock would use any, even if they existed.  They just sit and stare and try to come up with a reason for what they’re doing.

 

At last, Spock releases Len’s neck and motions slightly, the gentle flash in Len’s mind filling in what the gesture does not.  Len hesitates, worries, and then decides.  He crawls around the fire to Spock’s rug and the two lay down, almost but not quite touching.

 

They close their eyes and go back to sleep.


	4. Who Caught and Sang the Sun in Flight

Morning underground is not heralded by the rising of the sun, but the call of the imam.  The Muslim religious leaders of all the communities possess chronometers, a rare commodity, and the small devices shrill them awake at six every morning.

 

The imam walks the streets, chanting his convocation in mellifluous Arabic.  The faithful arise and go to their communal hut for prayer.  Everyone else simply awakens and rises for a new day.  Children, so few since the purges, sleep through the chanting.  No one has the heart to wake them.

 

The imam passes their hut and Len awakens.  He didn’t dream of blue last night.  Instead he’d seen Pavel and Scotty lying dead in the rubble of San Fransisco.  He saw Chris sprawled on a dirt plain stained red, a message from the front still clutched in her hand when they’d chased the fliers away.  He’d seen Jim screaming at them to “Go!  Go!  Go!” as the Pacifists closed in around him, guns raised.  He’d seen Spock’s face harden and his mouth close as he’d dragged Len away from the melee, away from the danger.  It was the last time they saw Jim.  It was the last time Spock had spoken.  It was the last time Len even considered alcohol as medication for the pain.

 

Now he just lives with it.

 

Spock is awake, and he watches as Len collects himself.  It takes Len a while to stop shaking, but there are no tears so he considers it a good night’s sleep.  Spock, too, seems to have slept well.  The dark green circles under his eyes have more or less faded, and his shoulders don’t stoop quite as much this morning as they did last night.

 

Their faces are close.  Every part of them is close.  Len feels Spock’s ghostly presence in his mind like fingers barely brushing.  They watch one another, not speaking.  Spock’s is blinking, each flicker of movement possessing its own internal rhythm. 

 

For that moment, they are both present.  Both firmly rooted in that time and that place.  Len focuses on Spock’s face, trying to capture every gesture, every feature.  Trying to _solidify_ them.  Make them real and permanent and perfect.  Make them last.

 

The face seems to blur around the edges, fleeting and squirming away, refusing capture.  Len watches harder, not blinking.  The face needs to stop for just a second.  Just a second is all he needs to understand, to know.  After that, anything can happen.  Spock and he can die, but Len will have that face in his mind.  It will be his.  He lays a hand on the face, trying to still it.  Spock doesn’t back away.

 

There it is.  That face right there.  Len gets his moment, crystallizing the face in his mind’s eye.  Keeping it perfectly: every hue, every shadow, every highlight.  They lie on the blankets and watch and understand.  This is new.  This is different.  They don’t do this.

 

There is a long moment of indecision.  Choices made in the dark seldom appear the same in the light.  Even if there is no real light underground, the same principle applies.  They’ve come this far, now it’s a question of going further.  Of shattering something delicate which, once broken, will never be repaired.  It’s a question of consequences, of what comes after the shattering.  Will they find that the broken window leads to something infinitely more vital and real and good than what they have, or once the window is gone, will there be nothing left?  Do they dare take the chance?

 

For an instant, they have courage.  For an instant, they have conviction.  For an instant, they are the men they once were, and Commander Spock’s hand is curled around Doctor McCoy’s neck, and Doctor McCoy’s fingers run across Commander Spock’s cheek.  They can’t look one another in the eyes.  They’re marveling at the work of their own hands, as if the appendages were on a disconnect, no longer a part of their bodies. 

 

The instant is gone, and Len stands up too quickly.  Spock watches him for a second and nods, rising too and going for his clothes.  They dress.  The clothes are mostly dry.  Though the rinsing has removed the caked mud, their shirts are brown and always will be.  Yet, the rinsing has cleaned off the insignias, and they shine with only a slightly dulled fervor.  It makes Len glad to see. 

 

Their clothes seem much thinner now.  The cold will be a greater issue.  The clothes feel more or less clean, though, and that makes them luxurious.  Len finger-combs his hair until it feels right and he looks at the polished metal surface of a pan propped up as a mirror. 

 

Nothing about the man in the mirror is right.  He wonders who this man is.  He’s faded and thin, cheeks hollow, eyes sunken.  His hair is longer than regulation, and the attempt to comb it has failed.  The eyes are the worst.  The eyes are gray.  Len knows that they were once blue.  No more.  Even from something which seemed indelible, blue is gone.  It’s abandoned him.  Len turns from the mirror, not wanting to see the man with the gray eyes.

 

Spock watches Len as he always does.  Len looks at him, meeting his gaze, daring him to say something or flash something that in any way derides Len for his cowardice.  Spock is equally guilty of that, anyway.  It isn’t as if either of them are alone in anything. 

 

Spock hesistates, which is rare.  He steps close to Len and raises his hands, which is rarer.  Then, fingers there but not really, he brushes at Len’s hair.  Straightening.  Ordering.  Structuring.  Chasing something elusive.  Something blue.

 

Len wants to touch but doesn’t dare.  A movement, a moment will shatter this.  Make him empty.  He needs this moment as much as Spock does.  It isn’t often that they think about the past, but when they do they crave.  When everything is lost, nothing matters.  The numbness is ironically painful in a way that a person cannot imagine until they experience it.  When they stop, the numbness will catch them.  When they stop, everything they’ve experienced will be real.

 

Len is shaking.  It’s too much.  It’s bearing him down to a place he’s never been, a place that terrifies him, a place that's hungry.  He gasps, and the sound is loud in the silent hut.  The imam has long since passed by and there is nothing in the world but the two of them. 

 

Spock’s mouth opens.  It forms the beginning of a word, but can’t get farther.  Can’t say anything for the pain.  They fall together, crash and break and reform somewhere in the middle in a tight, despairing embrace.  Something here.  Something real.  Something necessary.

 

Len’s face is buried in Spock’s shoulder.  This is real.  This is genuine.  They’re both gasping, but they gasp in time.  They breathe in together, breathe out.  In.  Out.  Real.  Everything is so sharp.  Everything is clear.  So little time left before they go to die.

 

This is a soldier’s embrace.  A taut moment between men who face the inevitable, who stare out into the void and do not know what will come after.  If anything.  Len reaches out to the darkness and tries to part the veil between the worlds, but he can’t.  He can’t reach far enough in, if there is a far enough.  What would it be to close his eyes, he wonders, and never know anything else?  For everything he has been, all his thoughts, knowledge, his blue to simply cease to be.  Forever.  What would it be for consciousness to not persist, but simply stop?  No Len.

 

Spock’s fingers are tight in his hair.  It’s the best Spock can give him.  Len’s face brushes the curve of Spock’s neck.  It’s enough.  It’s more than he had expected.

 

Spock steps back.  His eyes are hard and his shoulders set.  Len nods.  It’s time to go.  They walk out of the hut, passing others emerging from their own tiny dwellings.  They will live these last days.  If nothing else, they will live.

 

They go to Nyota’s hut.  She and Hikaru are waiting.  Hikaru has also washed and now stands at attention.  When Spock and he walk into the hut, Hikaru even salutes them.  Len’s not sure if it’s for his benefit or for theirs.  They are all of them walking dead.

 

Hikaru has his pack on.  The smells from it tell tales of Nyota cooking long into the night.  It’s her way of saying goodbye.  She never uses words anymore.  She thinks they’re useless, same as everything else you can’t hold in your hands.  There are dreams, sure, but they don’t keep you alive, they only keep you going.  That’s a secondary goal.  Ny's a tactician.  Doesn't believe in the intangible.  Len’s never told her about blue and doesn’t think he ever will.  Nyota would disapprove.

 

“So soon?” Len asks Hikaru.

 

“They need soldiers at the front, Doc,” Hikaru says.  “No reinforcements unless the Vulcans come.”

 

Flash.  A twisting sort of doubt. 

 

Hikaru watches them and says, “Mister Spock doesn’t think that’s going to happen.”

 

Len closes his eyes.  “He thinks they’ll defend their own borders and secure a victory, rather than risk loss by helping us.  Logic.”

 

“I have to say, Sir,” Hikaru says, “I really hate logic sometimes.”

 

“I know what you mean, Kid,” Len says.

 

Spock says nothing, of course.  He looks at Len and cocks his head.  Flash. 

 

Len smiles.  “Spock agrees.”

 

Hikaru’s eyes widen.  “He does?”

 

Spock doesn’t look at either of them.

 

“Of course he does,” Len says.  He doesn’t need to say more.  Hikaru understands.  There are times a man can believe in something with everything he is, have it swallow him whole, reform him in its image, and he’ll hate that thing all the more.  You don’t need to explain that to the walking dead.

 

Hikaru looks at the floor.  He looks at the walls.  He looks everywhere but at Len and Spock.  There are words, they know, but Hikaru doesn’t seem to want to say them.  If he says goodbye now, it might be the last time. 

 

“Son,” Len says, wanting to take the decision off his shoulders.  The kid has enough on his plate to worry about.

 

Hikaru shakes his head, hair fluttering in dark eyes.  “Sirs,” he says, saluting.

 

They return the gesture.

 

Hikaru turns and walks out of the hut.  Another one gone to the front.  If Hikaru gets lucky, he’ll just lose the other arm and live out his days underground.  “Too damn many gone, Spock,” he says.

 

The barest nod, but Len sees the pain bone-deep in his mind’s eye.  The Vulcan is stupid for even trying to hide it.  That sort of suppression will only make the next catharsis more painful.  Spock should know that.  Should know that he’s not the only one betrayed.

 

“Let’s go find some breakfast,” Len says.  They don’t have to pay for it now.  They’re walking dead.  Walking dead don’t have to pay for food.  A little thank-you to those about to die for the cause.  The resistance isn’t about to let anyone commit suicide on an empty stomach.

 

The morning smells of the underground are heady and thick: cooking meat and cinnamon, the yeasty smell of fresh bread and the acrid stink of the smithee burning government property into useful every-day items. 

 

Spock and Len walk close together.  There is something necessary in their nearness when they stand on the precipice.  People watch them with reverence and sorrow.  This is the passing of an age.  The last Vulcan is going off to die.  There won’t be any more in this shrunken universe.  They will be truly myth, nothing but a cultural memory waiting to be spun into a grandiose, glittering web of elaboration.  Lies breathed through silver.

 

It’s a thought that makes Len’s chest hurt, and he focuses on the smell of food.  There are kebabs roasting.  The vendor knows them on sight and offers one.  Len takes it, but Spock declines.  Spock retrieves some bread.  Len looks at him but doesn’t ask.  It’s Spock’s business if he wants to start refusing meat again.  The walking dead are entitled to that sort of thing. 

 

They walk and they eat, and Len watches.  For the first time in years, since the alcohol dulled his interest in the world, Len forces himself to watch.  To feel the world moving about him, eddying.  Ragged people pass, some looking their way, some not, some recognizing them for what they are, some only seeing two more desperate men.  One or two salute, but none are from the sciences.  They’re in red and gold, which makes Len sad, but it’s still good to see uniforms.

 

There is something deep, Len realizes, about these people.  Something running strong: they are free.  It’s a tiny thing, insignificant really.  Freedom doesn’t feed you, freedom doesn’t cure the cases of trenchfoot that crop up when the underground is saturated with rain from above.  Freedom, like dreams, like blue, keeps you going, though.  Without food, and on two bad feet, freedom is a crutch. 

 

These people are free.  Their faces are hardened by the scars of their choice, but they chose regardless.  Even among the walking dead, there is more life than in those who live on the surface.  Those people’s lives are true death.  A lingering wait for the end, too far gone to realize what they’ve lost.

 

Len looks at Spock and wonders if freedom is worth the price.  He wonders which is worse: the deadly life of the damned lurking in the darkness underground, or the living death of those in pristine splendor on the surface.  Those who forgot . . .

 

Len shudders.  No.  Freedom is better.  Anything is better than the loss.  Anything is better than forgetting everything that ever meant something: Jim, the Enterprise, his career, his darling Joanna, Ny, Hikaru, Scotty and Pavel, Chris, Riley, Spock.  God, his death is more than acceptable if it means he’ll never lose the memory of Spock.

 

Len stops in the middle of the path, and Spock stops a few short paces away, turning and watching him, questioning with his eyes.  Len doesn’t look up from where he stands staring at his boots.  He runs over what he thought.  Of all the people he fears losing most, Spock tops his list.  Why?  Is it because Joanna is safe on Alpha Centauri?  Is it because everyone else is gone or might as well be?  No.  None of those answers seem right.  They’re too easy, a snap of fingers with no substance, no heart.

 

In Len’s tiny universe, only two things exist: blue and Spock, and those two things are inextricably bound in Len’s mind.  Each carries its own import, but each evokes a different feeling in Len.  Blue is a lifeline, a necessity.  Painful joy.

 

Spock is different.  Spock is real and solid and there.  Spock is the only one left who hasn’t gone away or changed into someone unrecognizable.  These things Len knew even before the collapse.  What he never realized, what he never admitted until now, is that Spock means more to him than anyone but Jo.  Even before it was necessary, some part of Len had spoken to some part of Spock.  They are two halves of the same whole, and only the end of the world can force them into acknowledgement of that fact. 

 

Well, the world has ended, and Len loves Spock.  Len is in love with Spock. 

 

It seems so trivial here, so trifling.  It’s a tiny thing, an unimportant speck in the grand scheme, but it matters to Len, more than freedom and dreams and life.  Maybe even more than blue.  This love was what he tried to puzzle out all last night and maybe even since he met his Vulcan.  Everything that matters at all comes into inexplicable, extraordinary focus as he stands in a busy underground street holding a kebab and waiting to die.  Life is sometimes strange.

 

He looks up and Spock is watching him, but does not probe his mind.  Spock accepts his privacy and does not demand access.  He doesn’t ask why Len has stopped, and that’s something for which Len is grateful.  He’s not sure if he could ever explain this to Spock.  To tell him now, with such scant time left, would be more than cruel.  Whether or not Spock accepts and reciprocates, the remaining days of their lives would be more painful for the truth.

 

Len keeps his mouth shut and keeps walking.  They spend the morning in the town, walking, eating and looking at everything the vendors have for sale.  There are no bigots this morning.  Just people who glance their way.  A few who salute.  A few who look at them in pity and offer them food and wares to ease their passing.  The food they will accept.  The wares they refuse.  They cannot take such things with them.

 

At last, they are forced to do what they’ve been subconsciously avoiding all morning.  They return to Nyota’s shack to find her at her table with a tall, angular man.  They have maps spread out in front of them, and talk in low voices.  Len can’t hear what they’re saying.

 

Flash.  Spock can hear.  They are planning Spock and Len’s attack route, discussing chances for survival.  Len doesn’t want to know and Spock doesn’t tell him.  Spock’s mind is so grim, he doesn’t need to tell.

 

Nyota looks up.  “I thought we were going to have to send a search party out for the two of you,” she says, smiling.  They can’t return her smile and it withers on her face.  She returns to business, looking pained.  “We’ve got uniforms for you.  Your weapons and explosives will come tomorrow, and you’ll move out as soon as you’ve got them.  Time is of the essence, and the longer we wait, the more chance they have of discovering our plans.”

 

Spock and Len nod.  They’d expected nothing else. 

 

“Know that you’re doing the resistance a great favor, Gentlemen,” she says.  “We won’t forget this.”

 

Len hates the necessary bullshit of that statement, but it has to be made for propriety’s sake.  Even in the underground, there is etiquette to be followed and procedure to maintain.  Nyota knows it and Len knows it and Spock certainly knows it.  Makes Spock just as sick as it makes Len.  The Vulcan dislikes such a waste of words.

 

They stand at attention and when she nods to them, they turn to leave.  “Visit the barber tonight,” she says on their way out.  “You’ll need a shave and a haircut if you want to look like surface soldiers.”

 

Len nods for both of them.


	5. And in a Wide Sea of Eyes I See One Pair that I Recognize

Cleaned and shaved.  When was the last time he felt so well-scrubbed?  Len lies down on his blanket and thinks back, but won’t go any further back than the collapse.  Those memories are off-limits.

 

Never in the permitted memories has he been so clean.  He feels wrong, stretched too tight over his bones.  There’s nothing between Len and the outside world, and even under his uniform, he feels exposed. 

 

Len will give up his uniform tomorrow.  It will be given to the resistance, his name, rank, and serial number written upon the dirty fabric, and it will be held by the leaders of the resistance, awaiting his return, or, barring that, to be held as a trophy, as a symbol to show when the war finally ends.  Len tries to picture his dirty clothes in a museum, being marveled over by school children.  He finds the idea humorous.

 

Flash.  A sort of soothing comfort, or at least as near to soothing as Spock can come under the circumstances.  Spock thinks he’s on the edge of a breakdown.  Might be right.  Might be on the edge of a breakthrough instead, but neither of them can think of the difference.

 

It’s the first flash Len’s gotten since he realized he was in love with Spock.  He's had a few hours to mull it over, and now he's suspicious of his love.  After all, he doesn’t have anything to test the affection against.  He’s been years without love, without attraction.  Maybe emotions have built up to the point where they’ll transfer to anyone, most especially to the man who has been with him for so long.

 

Len’s not sure.  He doesn’t trust his own mind.  If he were brave, he would ask for Spock’s opinion which he trusts infinitely more than his own, but Len is no longer brave.  He can’t afford it. 

 

Flash.  Oh, God.  Spock’s had days to build up emotions, and with all the stress he needs catharsis.  Either that or he knows that Len is hiding something.  Sneaky bastard.  The one offer he knows Len will never refuse.  Not with the possibility of blue on the table.

 

Len looks at Spock, but the Vulcan gives him nothing.  No expression, no subsequent flash.  He merely looks Len in the eye and waits.  Len feels his face pinch in indecision, but he’s a doctor, isn’t he?  He’s supposed to ease suffering, even if just in the limited capacity he possesses now.  He should do this, personal feelings aside.  He really has to do this.

 

He shifts toward Spock, inching across the ground in little scoots.  Forcing a body to move against its will.

 

Spock shifts, too.  Little glides forward.  They’re snails inching together.  Fingers twitch and reach and pull back.  Spock cocks his head at Len’s hesitance and waits.  This move is Len’s, if he can make it.

 

He has to jerk the rest of the way, hand pressing palm-down to the side of Spock’s face, smooth and delicate without the grit and dirt.  A thin membrane stretched out over the insides, over the reality that is Spock.  He has to move his fingers to get them to the right spots, and they run over skin with a secret delight.  God, but this man is beautiful.  Most perfect thing in Len’s shrunken universe.

 

Spock’s fingers press into his face, little molten pricks of something running through his veins.  Something hot and real and blue.  Len lets his fingers tighten.  A few more seconds and all his secrets will be laid bare.  A few more seconds and he’ll have an answer.

 

The link hits him harder than it ever has.  He’s not aware of his body’s response, or if he even has a body anymore.  This is the last time, they both know.  The last time their minds will come together in this way.  The last time they’ll truly know.

 

Spock’s misery is acute, deep and funereal.  Imminent death isn't pain to Spock, it's release.  Still, he mourns the loss of one he has known so well and so long.  He does not know if Len can follow where Spock will go once death comes.

 

Len’s resolve to spare Spock the pain of knowing crumbles in the face of such intense communion, and consciousness bleeds desperately into Spock’s.  He opens, letting the Vulcan know everything: his love, his loss, his fear, his cowardice.  Everything Len has become since the collapse pours into this moment, this necessity, and then pours back, amplified by blue.

 

 

Oh, God, blue is more intense and brilliant than it ever was before.  Len doesn’t care about the pain, it’s his now anyway.  There are no boundaries between them and they share everything.  Blue permeates everything within Len and shakes him apart.

 

And he’s back in his own body in their hovel underground.  He’s not so much melding anymore as cupping Spock’s cheek in his hand, head tilted, mouth so close he can smell the bread on Spock’s breath. 

 

“Spock,” he whispers.  It’s a secret moment, meant for just them, to narrow their universes even further until nothing stands between them but this reality.  They stay like this longer than Len can count, until things seem right and real and normal again.  Until they forget when and where they are, who they’ve become.  Until nothing matters because they’ve got each other and damned if they don’t have blue as well.

 

The kiss, when it comes, is as surprising as it is awkward.  They don’t fit.  Their insides and their outsides can’t quite agree on a plan of action, and Len catches at Spock’s lips in a sort of wiggle-push-almost-there. 

 

Five years.  More.  Over seven years since he’s touched anyone like this, and Len’s out of practice.  Hands reach and flap and don’t know where to go.  Lips are as unsure as hands, and grasp without really clinging.  Len feels his gut clench.  He wanted this to be perfect.  Wanted it to be something magical, something outside reality, above it.  He wanted this kiss to be blue.

 

Spock hears his thoughts.  Len feels desert-hot hands come up and frame his face, holding him still and planning the sequence of events.  And oh, right there.  Spock, who’s really had less experience at this sort of thing than Len, just seems to know what to do. 

 

The kiss is warm and wet, the sort of thing that slides through Len like hot soup.  He squirms closer, wanting to vanish within Spock, find the blue and live his life out right there.  Not alone. 

 

Len opens his mouth, deepening the kiss.  No, wrong word.  Connection.  Yeah, connection.  “Kiss” is too trite, too commonplace for this gesture.  Spock likes connection, too, and reciprocates, licking at Len’s tongue with a sort of contained urgency.  Len presses closer and shivers when Spock licks at the roof of his mouth, a hundred nerve endings waking up.

 

Len is sinking in all conceivable ways.  His back hits the ground and his head is swimming, and he's clinging harder to Spock than he's ever clung in his life.  Spock, for his part, is reaching down and pushing Len's shirt up.

 

Connection is about need, and this feels like something they've needed for an age.  They are not graceful in this.  They don't slip into need and connection so easily as that.  They do manage to get the job done, though.  Len's shirt is off and they're both scrambling to get out of the rest of their clothes.

 

Skin brushes and then rubs with more confidence and Len is melting, everything he has been or known sloughing away.  He wonders if this is what Pacifist forgetfulness is like, but dismisses the idea as unbecoming.

 

Their coupling is both simple and labyrinthine.  Physically, it's merely two bodies and a good deal of friction, but everything else about this act is spiraling out of control.  Len shuts his eyes and lets sensation wash over him.  He trembles under this deluge of feeling, his body flushed, needing what it has been denied. 

 

Climax is utterly silent.  Len jerks up into Spock and Spock freezes up and then kisses the side of Len's neck.  They lay tangled up on the ground and Len keeps his eyes shut, truly warm for the first time in years.  His body is still tingling and he reaches up to kiss Spock again.

 

Spock’s gone.  Just pulls back and looks at Len with a sort of realization, and Len stares back, mouth hanging a little open.  This is him laid bare like he’s never been before.  He remembers the first time he had sex.  He was seventeen and all arms and legs, and he’d gotten naked and thought he might die as the girl . . . what was her name? . . . stared at him in a sort of shock.

 

Now here he is in his forties and he feels even more exposed, even more mortified.  Spock blinks at him, like Len's some data that isn’t quite computing the way it should.  Like everything that just happened from catharsis to afterglow was some aberration in the system.  Nothing earth-shattering, but bothersome, nonetheless.

 

Spock gets up, dresses, and leaves their hut, giving a quick flash of wanting some time alone.  When he closes the cloth flap that serves as their door, Len gathers up his own clothes.  He doesn't dress.  He just leaves the clothes in a heap across his lap and stares at his hands.

 

This time tomorrow, he thinks, they’ll both be dead.


	6. Before I Taste the Earth

Time to go.  The words ring through Len's head with each footstep he takes.  The surface soldier's uniform is scratchy, makes his fingers twitch.  The explosives he got from the angular man waiting in Ny's shack while she was out restocking are hidden in the lining of his jacket, and Spock has the detonators.  Not that he's seen Spock.

 

The Vulcan never came back.  He left and stayed gone, and Len spent his last night on this earth lying alone in the dark, staring at the tarp ceiling and wondering at the tears that leaked out his eyes.  He didn't cry.  Can't admit to crying over something he never had to begin with, but there were tears.  No noise, no hitch in his breathing, just a steady stream of salty water slipping from the corners of his eyes. 

 

He didn't sleep at all last night.  Now, he's dressed and can't remember when he did that.  Can't remember if he ate before he left.  If he moved from the hut in the first place.  Everything is hazy except the road out of the underground.

 

He's not going to visit Ny before he leaves.  He wants Ny to remember him vital, alive.  He doesn't want her to see him like this, tear tracks scrubbed away, but the bags under his eyes a little puffier than they should be.  He'll just slip out.  Maybe he won't even take Spock with him. 

 

Len likes the idea of Spock staying behind, detonators be damned.  The more he thinks about it, the better he thinks the idea might be.  Spock could live out his life in the underground, representing a hope that shouldn't just die.  A hope in stars.

 

He squares his shoulders, nods at the guard next to the entrance into the maze, and leaves the town, not looking back to warmth or family.  If he looks back, he'll turn back.  This is one time when he can't afford to be a coward.  This is one time when he has to be bold.  The tunnel's torches gutter in the darkness, a few of them gone completely out, leaving pools of black.

 

It's out of one of these pools that Spock steps, falling in next to Len.  Len closes his eyes and snorts.  "Good to see you again," he says.  "Have a nice night?"

 

Nothing.  Not even a flash.  Spock's a wall.  No, more.  He's a black hole, a point of darkness so complete that nothing will ever get out.  Len wraps his arms around his middle to keep out the chill.

 

They walk along in silence, through the twisting maze and the patches of dark that separate the spaces.  Len huddles into his clothes.  In another time he would have pulled close to Spock and they would have walked together.  Now, the gap between them spreads into an abyss and Len walks by himself.  He's half convinced Spock's not really there at all.  That he's back in Ny's town, safe in their hut.  That he'll grow old.

 

The tunnel widens, and far away there's a pinprick of light not made of fire.  Len has to squint to look at it, but keeps on towards it despite the discomfort.  The light gets bigger before engulfing them both in brightness.  Len steps out into the woods, and the trees do nothing to shield him from the sun, not on a bleak mid-autumn day when all the branches are claws and nothing more.  Len realizes he's never seen the trees of this forest when they did have leaves, even when they should.  Perhaps the entire world has gone and died on him.

 

Len pulls himself up to a rigid, military posture.  It's been so long, but he remembers this, or at least his body does.  His muscle memory is better than his actual memory, and Len thinks that's as it should be.  The body keeps going even after the mind quits, so why shouldn't the body retain that which the mind found too painful to recall?

 

The forest thins and then clears altogether.  Len feels exposed on the surface.  There are no walls, no corners, just the vast barren expanses.  On the horizon, he sees their goal, their target.  It looks like a tiny metal box from his perspective.  Something he could pick up and put in his pocket if he had a mind to.

 

He doesn't.  He knows the tiny box is a huge warehouse filled with weapons to use against the rebellion.  People will die if he and Spock fail.  The warehouse gets larger and is no longer situated on the horizon. 

 

Soon, the warehouse seems as tall as Len, then as tall as Spock.  Then the warehouse grows even more until it blocks out the rest of the world.  There is nothing but them and the warehouse.  Spock still hasn't communicated anything to Len.

 

Spock's hat is pulled low over his eyebrows and ears, and Len matches the attempt, thinking to fool the guards with verisimilitude.  The only problem is that there are no guards.  There doesn't seem to be anyone at the warehouse.

 

Len walks up to the large front door and looks around.  No one.  Every instinct he's got tells him that this is not the place for him.  There is something fundamentally wrong with this place.  There should be sentries, guards, at least a watchman.  Yet, there's nothing.  Nobody. 

 

Len wraps his arms around himself for a moment to guard against the desolation of this place.  He has a job to do, though, and pushes open the door. 

 

He rocks back on his heels.  This is no armory, but a storage area.  Row after row of stasis pods containing person after person.  Len approaches the fist pod.  Starfleet.  The next pod too.  Other pods contain people of other species.  Len recognizes ambassadorial colors when he sees them.  These are delegations.  Maybe negotiators who vanished without a trace.  Perhaps no help has come to earth because earth has become its own black hole: anyone who attempts contact with the new regieme vanishes into the pods.

 

One pod draws his attention because of the light.  It's flickering on and off in a steady rhythm.  The man in the pod is Vulcan.  Len stares at the device and his heart starts to pound.  Clutched in the Vulcan's hand is a communicator.  A direct relay to Vulcan for anyone capable of using it.

 

"Spock," Len whispers, "I think I found something better than a way to blow this bunker sky high."

 

Spock stands next to him and palms the release on the stasis unit.  Stasis flickers off.  The Vulcan remains unconscious, and in this place, surrounded by so many uniforms, Len feels the lack of a medical tricorder more keenly than he has in years. 

 

He reaches out and takes the communicator in trembling hands.  After so long at the bottom of the technological ladder, it feels to his skin that he has never handled and instrument so fragile or intricate.  He thumbs the calling device and waits, his heart pounding.

 

He hears nothing.  There is no communication.  He opens a channel and, in a voice hoarse with something which could almost be called hope, he asks, "Is anybody there?"

 

Silence so long that it breaks what little is left of Len's heart.  Silence so pervasive Len feels like he's drowning in it. He tries again, his desperation clear in each word: "Please, somebody pick up."

 

"You are not Savel," a voice says.

 

Len's on his knees and he doesn't know how.  Tears are streaming down his face, but he doesn't know why.  He dredges up words, words from a past that rips him up to remember, and he can't tell if the pain comes from loss or hope, or if there's any difference.  "This is Lieutenant Commander Leonard McCoy of the Starship Enterprise.  I have Commander Spock with me, but he can't talk.  Please, God, please move on Earth."

 

"We have been waiting to hear from our delegation for months," the Vulcan says.  "Please confirm what has happened."

 

McCoy looks around in a haze.  "I don't know what happened," he says, feeling wooden.  "They're all in stasis right now, but how or why isn't something I've been privy to.  Please, a rebellion exists.  Starfleet-" God, that word, that glorious, painful word, "-Starfleet still exists, but there aren't a lot of us.  They hunt us down and we've been living in an underground tunnel system.  Please, please help us.  We'll fight if you can help."

 

Deafening silence.  "I am unsure as to the correct course of action."

 

Leonard McCoy gasps like he's been stabbed.  "For the love of God, our planet is tearing itself apart.  Now, we are a technologically advanced society.  There is no Prime Directive that applies to this situation.  The government was not elected.  It's an occupying force holding our entire world hostage.  What you need to do is clear, if the Federation exists at all.  If a member world is attacked, you help restore the peace.  Please . . ."

 

Another long silence.  "The delegation has been harmed?"

 

"Yes."

 

Suddenly, another voice is heard, achingly familiar.  "My son is there?" Sarek of Vulcan, Ambassador to Earth asks, hope and terror lacing his words in an undertow.

 

"Oh, God, Sarek," McCoy says.  "He's here, but . . . things aren't good."

 

"We are beaming everyone within a meter of you into our cargo bay, is that acceptable?" Sarek asks.  McCoy thinks he hears a calm protest in the background, but Sarek is in charge now.  Something like peace is working its way into McCoy's soul.

 

"Sarek, that's just fine," he says.

 

McCoy hears the door to the warehouse tear itself off its hinges, but doesn't have time to do anything more than straighten.  The Pacifists use old-style projectile weapons.  The Pacifists believe they instill more terror than the cleanliness of a phaser.  Phaser wounds cauterize.  Projectile wounds bleed.

 

The blast comes from a shotgun and it lifts McCoy off his feet.  When he lands, he stares at the ceiling and tastes copper.  Everything from his clavicles to his hips is on fire.  He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.  He hears a rushing in his ears.

 

Then he hears the voice, rusty and horrified.  "Leonard!" it cries out, and McCoy is shaking and Len is crying because he's heard the voice.  It's like seeing the face of God.

 

Spock falls to his knees next to Len McCoy and says again, "Leonard."

 

McCoy's feet are numb, which is strange.  He focuses his eyes on the man he loves and he smiles.  "Hello, Mister Spock," he says.  "It's been a long time."

 

Spock nods.  His hands frame Len's face and he stares at him.  Len stares back.  In the periphery, he hears the Pacifists coming.  He knows in his gut that Sarek will not reach them in time, but all he wants is to be staring at Spock the second everything goes dark.

 

The Pacifists are shooting at them, and Len feels the impact of a bullet in his shoulder.  It doesn't hurt, but it's hot.  Spock gets hit in the back and falls across Len.  Red and green blood begins to mix and turn a deep, rich black.  One of Len's arms still works and he touches the back of Spock's head where it lays on his shoulder.  The Pacifists stand over them now, and they train their guns on McCoy's face.  Len doesn't look at them.  He keeps his eyes on Spock.

 

The world dissolves into light and Len hears a high-pitched mechanical whine.


	7. 'Tis Not too Late to Seek a Newer World

Beep.  Beep.  Beep.  Beep.

 

Len's world comes into focus.

 

Beep.  Beep.  Beep.

 

The ceiling above is gray and smooth.

 

Beep.  Beep.

 

He's lying on a real bed, a clean bed.

 

Beep.

 

The world smells like antiseptic, something Len hasn't smelled in so many years.

 

Above him, Sarek's ascetic face leans in.  "The reclaiming of your world will take much longer.  Rest, Doctor."

 

McCoy lets his head fall to the side and stares at Spock.  His Spock, who spoke to him at the end.  "He lives," Sarek says.  "The healers say that his mind is more damaged than his body."

 

Len knows that. He can't speak well because his tongue feels like lead, but he says, "He's not an isolated case."

 

Sarek's hand is heavy on his shoulder.  "I know," he says.  "It seems your entire world is mad."

 

"Entire universe is mad, maybe, but that's fine.  It's why we have doctors: to patch the world up after the cataclysm."

 

Sarek nods, and they both look at Spock.  Len waits for him to wake up.


End file.
